Messy, messy. Snowy, snowy.

It’s impossible to eat an American croissant without looking like you have severe psoriasis.

Seriously. 

I’m covered in flaky pastry. I look like a molting snake who can’t get her life together. It’s not cute.

I would probably be amused, except I’m at work and feeling abnormally paranoid that a crumb is going to get stuck in my lipstick... and that I won’t notice until after I sit through hours of video meetings sporting half my breakfast on my face.

This is a real fear. Kind of like how Nicole worries about needing to poop when she’s on the corporate jet and people are sitting right there. (A well documented and highly talked about fear. I’m not giving up state secrets here.)

Now I’m irked about my coworkers refusing to tell me about fictional breakfast on my face, even though I just went to the bathroom to confirm that my lipstick is pastry free, and paranoid about pooping on my even-more-fictional corporate jet. Thanks, Obama!

Although, if I’m being honest, I was already irked because {wait for it} , we had to cancel our winter wonderland cabin weekend because of snow. 

We usually pray for snow. Now I’m cursing it. And roads. And snow plows that aren’t snoombas (which would obviously be the snow plow version of a roomba). Because, really, why aren’t robot snowplows a thing yet? 

I can’t enjoy the snow because of... snow.  

America, we clearly aren’t trying hard enough. With our inferior pastries and lack of road grooming robots. Get your priorities straight, will ya? I’ll give you a few minutes to pull your life together. When you’re ready, you can find me in the ladies. I’ll be the one attached to the mirror, checking my lipstick for the fiftieth time.